


i forget (but i remember you)

by honey_beeing



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Anterograde Amnesia, Confusion, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_beeing/pseuds/honey_beeing
Summary: Where Harry has anterograde amnesia and needs Louis's help sometimes.





	i forget (but i remember you)

Harry blinks and stares down at his shoes. Ratty, worn down boots that look hipster. His cold hands come up rub his face and smooth out his aching forehead and the metal of his rings is a shock to his skin. It's when he catches sight of the tattoos hiding under the sleeve of his flannel shirt. It rides up to read: 

 **HARRY. E. STYLES**  
**01.02.1994**  
**You're Alright.**

He knows this. He's Harry Styles and he was born on the 1st of February. Though he's confused as to where he is, he thinks he's alright.

The disorientation doesn't take a break. If anything, it rams into him harder as each second passes.

Further down his arm, a fresher looking tattoo appears. **CALL LOUIS.** He can feel a phone in his back pocket, and something tells him that he should call Louis. Even though he knows they've just recently met. Is three months too recent? They've spent enough movie dates and Netflix marathons together to not know each other. Maybe he shouldn't, but maybe it's better asking for help than tripping through his confusion.

Where was he? What was he doing? Why does he have to call his roommate of three months? Why is he following a bunch of instructions that were stupidly inked into his skin?

The iPhone in his pocket seems to larger than the usual ones he's seen. He turns it over in his hand in awe before switching it on. The screen asks for a passcode and panic surges through Harry at once. He takes a guess, and it happens to be his birthday. How convenient.

When he finds Louis's contact, his eyes fly to his Mum's number underneath, but he decides against it. He's twenty years old and he can handle himself. Another part of his brain is withering with the anxiety of what he doesn't know. Or what he doesn't want to know.

As the phone rang to the other side, his thoughts became increasingly debilitating. He is lost. He didn't know the way. He didn't even where he had to go. Perhaps being lost was something he was meant to do, if only it didn't make the fear cripple him.

Louis finally picks up. Praise the lord. "Hullo, love."

Something as odd as relief flows through Harry's body, relaxing him enough to kick some words out of his mouth. "Louis," he breathes. "Louis, I think I'm lost. My arm says to call you. I don't mean to be a bother, but could you help-"

"It's alright, it's alright," says Louis. It's really unnerving in a good way because Louis on the phone sounds much more mellow than the person he met a while ago. Someone who was brash about his opinions and was so sardonic that it became endearing after a while. "We can figure it out. Tell me what's around you, babe."

That's when Harry realises that they're something beyond the field of vision that seemed to momentarily restrict to himself. The floor was tiled and shiny. "I'm between... an aisle of sauces and another of crisps. A market. I'm at a market. Or a shop."

"Excellent," says Louis, softly. It makes something under his skin curl pleasantly. "Can you find your way to the front, H? You'll see Pat there. She'll let you sit there for a while until I come by. I'm on my way." As if promised, a sound of jingling keys locking a door comes from the other line.

"Okay," sighs Harry. He hates how meek he sounds. "I can do that."

"If you're having trouble and you need any help, call me again, okay?" Louis is heaving on his end. "No matter what, you call me. Alright, H?"

Harry hums in reply, mind set already on wanting to find the front of the shop.

Without ending the call, Harry pockets his phone and surges towards the end of the aisle where he gets to a main middle aisle. One end leads to a rack of cereals along a wall and the other to a cash counter. He nothing but sprints to the counter.

Pat turns out to be a lovely old woman who has shoulder length ginger curls. Her name tag is emboldened in dark caps and she smiles when he approaches her. "All done, dearie?"

"I- erm," Harry stutters, shuffling on his feet. Embarrassment makes his ears turn scarlet. "D'you mind if I sit here for a while? I'm waiting for someone."

In reply, Pat drags out an unoccupied stool next to her, flips open the counter and gestures for him to come in. "Don't worry, dear. Louis will be here in no time."

This woman knows Louis. Which means she knows him. What is she isn't supposed to know them? He's never even seen her before. Maybe something horrible was hidden under her sweet flowery perfume. Maybe he was famous... or convicted.

"I'm Patrisse and I've been running this shop for about twenty-four years now," she introduces herself with a smile. "I know you might not remember but you and Louis come in every Sunday and fight over the bread you want to buy."

His tension eases down with that. It definitely sounds like something the both of them would do. It pushes him to ask more about her, and when she sits up straighter, he can tell it's a story she loves to reminisce.

Halfway through Pat's exuberant story of how her husband escaped war to come to see her, a familiar somebody rushes into the shop. Something in Harry tells him to spring up at once, merely at the sight of his flatmate; he listens to it. He's locking his arms around Louis before he can even assimilate the thought. "Thank god," he huffs down into Louis's hair. The rustling sound of Louis's coat winds a pair of arms around Harry's torso. "Thank god you're here."

Pulling back, Louis flashes him a twinkling smile. "You needn't worry, love. I'm always here to help. Now, did you get the butternut squash or should we do that now?"

Butternut squash?

Harry's face must show it because Louis cuts across. "We can do it. Come along." He laces his fingers around one of Harry's hands and drags him towards where the produce might be.

He can't help but watch Louis for a minute. The lad had stubble the last time Harry can commemorate, but now it has grown into a nice, scruffy, reddish beard that didn't lean away from his chin. His usual style of plain white t-shirts morphed into a casual button down that Harry had never seen before. His lips were chapped, and where their fingers brushed together, Harry could feel harshly bitten cuticles. His blue eyes gleamed the same way- the way they did when they met and the way Harry spent months dreaming of them.

Louis doesn't let go of Harry's hand as he browses through the vegetables. He picks up a squash that looks more like a vase than an edible. "This seem alright to you?" All Harry can do is nod mutely, eyes beady as they follow Louis's everything. It probably shows, so Louis goes on. "Harry, you have anterograde amnesia."

"Very cinematic, in the middle of a bloody shop."

A laugh peals out of Louis. "I'm serious, though. It's why you were feeling lost. It's hard for you to make fresh memories." His throat bobs with a swallow. "We don't talk about how it happened. You never like it."

Harry furrows his eyebrows at him. "Amnesia? Like that Christopher Nolan Film? _Memento?"_

"That's the one," says Louis. "'S why you have the tattoos. Your phone has a bit of information too, but you don't really go to it. You have a diary at home that you write things in."

"What things?"

"Everyday events, interesting things that happen to you. Descriptions of people and sometimes pictures."

Harry bites down on his lip, eyes flickering up. "Are you in it? My diary?"

A modest blush rushes into Louis's cheeks. It's thrilling to be on the other side, where he can finally fluster Louis and not vice-versa as usual. "I suppose I am. Bits and bobs here and there." To fill in the lapse of conversation, Louis leads him to the checkout, where he thanks Pat and they exit the store.

Not once has Louis let go of his hand. Not even when he has to retrieve his wallet and juggle the money. It doesn't feel like an obligatory comfort, more like a favourite activity.

Harry stops abruptly before the entrance of the store, making the other man stumble back a bit. "We're together," he states.

Louis grins up at him, squeezing their hands tighter. "You remember."

"I can remember?!"

"You've been undergoing some training to help you remember better. They won't be accurate memories, but it's for basic things like a new phone number or close people or what you like to have for breakfast."

Harry purses his lips. "How long have we been together?"

"I'd say about three years," Louis shrugs. "It happened a little way after you were diagnosed with the amnesia."

He doesn't notice they've started walking again as he speaks. "I'm twenty-three, oh god," he murmurs to himself. Then, he turns back to his boyfriend (boyfriend?!) "You do this every day? Don't you get tired?"

"Not, really." It's a straight, blunt answer, almost defiant as if Louis is asking him to fight him on it. He loves it. "If it's any consolation, most days you're just confused and ready to absorb information. Rare are the occasions where you wake up and have bad days."

Even if Harry is three years older than he thinks he is, he looks for the latter's approval like a fool. "What about today?"

Louis grins blindingly. "You're you, though you can't remember. I love you like this, and I love you like that." Love. Harry is going to die. To top it off, Louis gets on his toes to kiss his cheek sweetly.

Bloody hell.

"Now, you know the way home. Can you try to lead us?" Louis asks.

They're stood at the end of a nearly busy street, and Harry begins to feel the tell-tale signs of panic show up again. Tendrils of dread curls around in his stomach. He doesn't remember-he doesn't know. Why had they moved from their original flat? What if Louis's disappointed in him? When he looks back, Louis doesn't look hopeful, just very encouraging, and of course, that pushes Harry to move.

A few cars move out of their parking as they walk along the supposed path and parking metes go of with random clicks. Louis hasn't corrected him so far, so that's probably a good thing. Comfortable silence stretches between them as Harry stumbles. A long, whitewashed building comes to their left and something familiar itches at Harry. "Is it this one?" He turns to Louis, wincing.

Louis's smile answers him.

He fishes out a bunch of keys and they go in through the door and two flights of stairs before they're before their flat. Inside, it's much more colourful than Harry had expected. There's a teal wall, against which a toasted coconut coloured sofa set set stands, adjacent to a mustard one, where an array of picture frames hang in a pattern. Harry recognises a few of his family; Mum, Gemma, Robin. There's some of Louis's family by the looks of it. But, there's so many of Harry and Louis, in various positions and faces and times and hairstyles. He can't believe his brain decided to skip remembering all of it.

"Alright?" Louis comes to stand next to him. The kettle whistles from the kitchen- signifying that Louis had set out to make tea for them. It seems to have become a habit of his; comforting Harry in his confusion.

Harry sighs. "I wish I didn't forget all this. I can tell it's pretty great." He looks back down at Louis. "Did you know I wanted this way before I've gotten- gotten amnesia? You and me."

Louis smiles wistfully. "I do, love. I'm sorry it didn't happen sooner."

To that, Harry doesn't answer. There's really no point. He lets his eyes fall across the pictures. There's Niall in one of them- with brown hair. They must still be in touch. There is a picture of Harry carrying Louis bridal style, and it makes him break out into a smile. Next to it is a picture of them mid-snog.

He whips his head to the right, to find Louis gone. He stalks to the kitchen, ignoring how new the colour scheme of the cabinets seem to be and stands beside Louis as he's pouring tea into chipped cups. "We kiss?"

Louis gives him a funny look. It might be a question that's never been asked before. "Oh, we do much more than just kiss, Hazza."

Harry's mouth goes dry.

"Like, all the time?"

At that, one of Louis's eyebrows raises quizzically. "Come here," he says gingerly, letting the teaspoon slink into one of the cups.

For an unknown reason, Harry's chest begins to implode. He comes closer and leans in, nonetheless. When Louis kisses him, it's better than anything he's ever wanted and felt. Perhaps, the whole memory loss thing was good. If he felt like this every day, it definitely would be considered good. It's dizzying and grounding and shocking at once.

"Quit smiling like that, Styles," teases Louis. Harry hadn't even noticed that he was.

Soon after they have tea, they discuss just everything; their families to who the current prime minister was. Harry spends some time watching the telly and surfing through the Instagram pictures he doesn't remember taking. There are the most random things- a half bit pear, a scrabble board and hand with painted nails. His emails say something about sending some artwork in. He's an artist, finally. A successful one by the looks of it.

His diary, journal more like, is a nice leather bound book that's worn from touch and had a multitude of things written with permanent marker. When he opens it up, he sees it is littered with polaroid photos and inscriptions and drawings. There's a section for people and their pictures. The beginning starts with Mum and Gemma, and the middle is scattered with the plumber and the cashier at his favourite bakery It's nice to look through everything, and be under the illusion of knowing it all. But the last part of the previous entry is what makes him go rigid.

**Fifa with Niall on Thursday. Buy pony hair brushes later: 00, 03 and 05. Avoid synthetic brushes. Good day today, sun in the sky, no rain. Try not to forget anniversary lunch tomorrow. Louis is making something. At least, pretend you like it for his sake. You love him.**

He stares at it for another minute before shame starts burning cheeks, and then his neck. It's their anniversary. Their three-year anniversary. What was Harry doing? What was Harry's brain doing? How can he even forget?

The smell of the butternut squash peeps into their bedroom and Harry finds himself following it to the kitchen where Louis is stirring a sauce pot of orange coloured liquid- a squash soup. Beside him, is a pot of steaming black rice. He looks up and the vapours follow the direction of his movement and curl around his chin. "Lunch'll be ready in a few. Hungry, babe?"

"It's our anniversary today," he states simply.

Louis nods, but not too grimly. "You read your journal. It is. Three years," he waves his arms around theatrically. "Yay!"

Harry can't bring himself to laugh. He purses his lips and looks anywhere but his boyfriend. "How can you put up with this? With me? How long do you plan on doing this?"

It seems like a conversation they've had numerous times, but Louis's answer is patient. He drops his ladle into the pot and turns to face Harry completely. His eyes are so sincere, they burn into Harry's. "It doesn't matter to me. It's a part of you. Just like it's a part of me to not be able to do simple things like reading books or laundry. You accept all that, and you love me despite. And I do the same. Maybe it's a bit more work than usual, telling people and setting up. But, I'm never going to tire of telling you who we are and what you are and how much I love you." He cups Harry's face and comes close that their breath is mingling. "Got it, baby?"

Harry nods dumbly. If anything is true, it's what Louis said. He does love Louis, even if their relationship is something he's used to subconsciously. Even if it's only new to his memory.

"We don't get ahead of ourselves, H. We have savings and security, but we take each step as we go. So, I plan on," Louis gestures between both of them with his other hand. "Doing this as long as possible. Until you want to do it."

To that, Harry says, "Okay," meekly.

"Great," Louis pulls away with a flourish and claps his hands together. A second later, he's depositing a can of peaches in Harry's hand. "Start the Tarte Tatin. I know I said I'm cooking entirely today, but a little help won't hurt. We'll have a marvellous lunch till we're stuffed and let's see what we can do for the rest of the day."

Harry gawks at him, the can opener nearly slipping from his hands. Something about the last part sounded deceivingly sultry. "The rest of the day? Like what?"

Louis smirks in reply. "We don't get ahead of ourselves, Harold," he parrots. It's mocking and warm at the same time.

The table has already been set with the porcelain cutlery, the silverware and the crystal wine glasses, that Harry has a feeling they bring out only on occasion. They eat and laugh. Harry does most of the laughing because Louis's sense of humour is the same, if not sharper. The butternut squash floats in an amazing curry.

Turns out, his yester-self was wrong. Harry didn't have to pretend it tasted good. It is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated. x


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